


Pink Is For Pining (You, You, Nothing But You)

by clotpolesonly



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, HP-style werewolves, Hufflepuff Derek Hale, Insecure Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Metamorphmagus Stiles Stilinski, Misunderstandings, Slytherin Stiles Stilinski, Werewolf Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-05 19:04:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15177281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clotpolesonly/pseuds/clotpolesonly
Summary: “You know you could just ask him out, right?” Scott asked.Stiles stuffed the toast in his mouth and hoped he wasn’t blushing. “Why would I do that?”“Because you have a ginormous crush on him.”“I do not, shut up,” Stiles hissed as well as he could around a mouthful of toast.“Your pink hair says differently,” Scott sing-songed at him.***In which Stiles is a supremely socially awkward metamorphmagus with a crush, Derek is a quietly pining werewolf, and Scott and Lydia are done with their stubbornness and stupidity.





	Pink Is For Pining (You, You, Nothing But You)

**Author's Note:**

> my second ever Hogwarts AU, yay!! and this time with HP-style werewolves instead of TW-style XD
> 
> i had a lot of fun writing it, even when it was kicking my ass lol, and i wanna thank Jen for giving me such a neat art prompt to work off of!! you're the best, hun, _hugs and kisses_
> 
>  
> 
> [here's the art post on tumblr!!](http://triggeringthehealing.tumblr.com/post/175714216949/the-first-of-my-sterekreversebang-contributions)

Pumpkin pasties probably wasn’t the breakfast of champions, but the house elves were good pals and sent them on up anyway, for which Stiles was eternally grateful. He shoved another one in his mouth.

Scott’s bag thumped down on the bench next to him, followed by Scott himself who peered at Stiles through narrowed eyes.

“Why is your nose so big today?”

“All the better to smell you with, my dear,” Stiles said automatically. Or to smell the pasties with, honestly, because they smelled delicious. With a sniff and a head shake, Stiles set his nose back to its normal size and inhaled two more pasties.

“You should slow down on those,” Scott said, filling his own plate with boring, reasonable breakfast foods like eggs and toast. “For one, you’re gonna make yourself sick again, and I don’t think Madame Pomfrey will have any sympathy for you this time. For another, people are staring.”

Stiles snorted. “Yeah, because _that’s_ unusual. At least my hair’s not funny colors this time. Since when have I cared about people staring at me anyway?”

“I think you’ll care about this one,” Scott said.

Another pastie already in his mouth, Stiles followed Scott’s nod in the direction of the Hufflepuff table. Derek Hale was looking back at him, one dark eyebrow raised and lips pursed like maybe he was trying not to laugh.

Stiles spit the pastie out in a spray of crumbs that had Scott smacking him in the shoulder with a drawn out, “Oh gross!” By the time Stiles looked back, Derek was buried in a textbook and paying him no attention at all. He shoved his plate out of the way and let his forehead thunk down onto the table.

“And _now_ your hair is funny colors.”

Stiles’ head flew back up. “What? No! What’s it doing?”

Scott gave him a look so sympathetic it bordered on pity, and Stiles knew the answer before he even said it.

“It’s pink, bro. I’m so sorry.” Then he frowned. “Well, it was pink a second ago. Now it’s sort of a pukey green color, but it’s creeping into red territory now. Actually, it’s sort of making me dizzy changing this fast.”

Stiles groaned and threw his hands up to cover as much of his head as he could manage. “No, no, no, make it stop!”

“ _You_ make it stop,” Scott said with a laugh. “It’s your hair.”

“When have I ever been able to make it stop, Scott?” Stiles demanded. “My hair has a mind of its own and clearly it _hates me._ ”

“I don’t know if you can say it has a mind of its own when it’s your emotions it’s reacting to.”

The man had a point there. Stiles gave up any hope of retaining his dignity in the face of his own traitorous shifting abilities and just let his hands fall.

“Well, it still hates me,” he said. “I stand by that.”

Scott handed Stiles a piece of toast dripping with honey butter and offered up a smile. “At least he’s not looking at you anymore,” he said, clearly meaning to be comforting.

Stiles couldn’t help the way his eyes flew back to Derek anymore than he could help the way his hair decided it wanted to be pink again right that second. Scott was right though, and Derek’s nose was still buried in _Advanced Charms Work Vol II._ Thank Merlin.

“You know you could just ask him out, right?” Scott asked.

Stiles stuffed the toast in his mouth and hoped he wasn’t blushing. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you have a ginormous crush on him.”

“I do not, shut up,” Stiles hissed as well as he could around a mouthful of toast.

“Your pink hair says differently,” Scott sing-songed at him. “Pink means you’re thoroughly smitten and we both know it. So why don’t you just suck it up and ask him to go to Hogsmeade with you or something?”

Stiles swallowed his toast with some difficulty; his throat was a little dry all of a sudden. “Uh, maybe because that’s crazy talk,” he said. “Setting aside the fact that I absolutely do not have a crush on Derek Hale no matter what my confused hair says, he’s also a very smart and talented and attractive seventh year with no interest in little old me.”

“Little old very smart and talented and attractive also seventh year you?”

Stiles punched Scott in the shoulder rather than try to argue any of those descriptors because he knew from experience that Scott _would_ actually argue with him about it. As much as he loved his best friend’s supportiveness, that didn’t change the fact that he was wrong and there was no logical reason that someone like Derek Hale would ever say yes to a date from someone like Stiles.

Especially if his hair was a humiliating rainbow mess that he had no control over.

“I’m just saying,” Scott said, ignoring Stiles’ attempt at a quelling look like he usually did. “I mean, he was looking at you earlier.”

“Yeah, because I was making a spectacle of myself, like you said,” Stiles pointed out, “and he was probably waiting for me to throw up.”

“Or if he had disobedient metamorphmagus hair, maybe his would be pink too.”

Stiles laughed before he could stop himself. “As if.”

Scott shrugged, reaching for a tureen of hot sauce to pour on his scrambled eggs because he had terrible taste like that. “I’m just saying. It’s a possibility. Think about it.”

“And _I’m_ just saying that we’re gonna be late to Transfiguration.”

They weren’t in the slightest danger of being late, but Scott kindly made no comment on that as he let Stiles drag him out of the Great Hall.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles managed to _not_ think about it for most of the day, if only by virtue of not having any classes with Derek in them. He put Derek out of his mind as firmly as possible—not all that firmly, to be honest, Stiles was not known for his mental discipline or ironclad control—and focused on his spellwork. He was at Hogwarts to learn, okay? Not pine over really pretty Hufflepuff prefects with no interest in him.

Not that he was pining, because he wasn’t. He was making potions, like the good student that he was most of the time. Or he was trying to, at least, but Advanced Potions had to be the one class he was in not segregated by House, and there was Derek across the room with his muscular forearms and steady hands and impressively furrowed brow. His potion looked perfect so far.

So did his hair, but that was beside the point and not something that Stiles noticed even a little bit.

Lydia’s sharp elbow in his side brought Stiles’ attention back to his own cauldron—the one he was sharing with her, he remembered belatedly, so he should probably contribute or she would absolutely throw him under the bus when it was time for grading. She raised an eyebrow at him expectantly and Stiles snatched up the porcupine quills to count out the correct amount.

“You’re even more distractible today than usual,” she observed.

“Just trying to tell Scott something,” Stiles made up.

It was perfectly plausible, considering Derek and Scott were partners themselves and therefore leaning over the same cauldron. They were chatting easily while their potion simmered and that made Stiles very nervous considering what Scott had been saying earlier. He didn’t think Scott would straight up _tell_ Derek that Stiles was crushing on him, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t hint or imply or otherwise nudge in a misguided attempt to set Stiles up with an uninterested guy who would probably be really weirded out.

“Sure you were,” Lydia said. She sprinkled sopophorous bean juice into the cauldron and the potion threw up six blue sparks, just like it was supposed to. “Is that why Derek keeps looking over here? Because you’re trying to talk to Scott?”

Stiles whipped around just in time to see Derek looking away. His head was ducked down to hide his face, but Scott was laughing. He had the audacity to give Stiles a thumbs up. Stiles rounded on Lydia again.

“He was not!” he insisted. Then: “Wait, why did you say ‘keeps looking’?”

“Because that’s the fifth time I’ve caught him watching you since class started,” Lydia told him calmly, wholly immersed in her potion-making. “Which, by the way, is five times more than Scott.”

Stiles’ entire face went hot and he was pretty sure his hair just grew an inch in a sorry attempt to hide the blush for him. “What? _Why?_ ”

Lydia glanced up at him, a smirk on her pretty and devious face. “There are any number of plausible explanations, but I figure the most likely is because _you_ keep looking at _him,_ and also maybe because your hair is bright pink again.”

Stiles might have cursed at an inadvisable volume. He also might have been a little uncoordinated in his reflexive attempts to cover his head. Said lack of coordination might have caused a vial of undiluted bundimun secretions to be knocked over, directly and unfortunately into his and Lydia’s cauldron. The resulting hiss and plume of noxious smoke as the acidic liquid ate through the iron of the cauldron _and_ the wood of the table (and possibly some of the stone beneath their feet) caused a bit of a ruckus as Professor Harris rushed to intervene and the rest of the class scattered.

Stiles got detention, but the tongue-lashing he got from Lydia for ruining her perfectly good Elixir to Induce Euphoria was worse. The worst, though, was that he didn’t catch Derek looking at him again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Detention with Harris was always an exercise in tedium and aggravation and this time was no different. It would’ve been a lot worse, of course, if Scott was even slightly less of a too-good-to-be-true friend and hadn’t deliberately landed himself in detention alongside Stiles. But he had, and the two of them had long since set in place measures to circumvent Harris’ tyranny.

Special, stealthy note-passing parchments, the ones they had developed together whose text was visible to literally everyone except Harris. The spell itself had been Scott's invention, but getting a drop of Harris’ blood to key the spell in to him and only him had been Stiles’ job. It had earned him six consecutive detentions in fourth year, but that had just given them plenty of opportunities to test out their invention and make sure it worked, which it totally did.

They had the parchments out now, tucked just underneath the essays they were supposedly writing on the disastrous consequences of mishandled bundimun solutions. Everything Stiles wrote on his showed up on Scott’s. Currently, it said:

 

_fuck my stupid fucking hair ok_

 

Scott rolled his eyes.

 

_your hair is fine, you’re the one being stupid, your hair knows what’s up_

 

Stiles chewed on the end of his quill then had to spit out the little fluffy feather bits that got stuck to his tongue. He was pretty sure the faces he was pulling didn’t make for an attractive picture.

 

_oh yeah I’M being stupid for assuming Derek doesn’t want a piece of all this_

 

_yeah you are_

 

Harris loomed suddenly over Stiles’ shoulder, with his beaked nose and his beady eyes that glittered with utter malice. Okay, so maybe Stiles got a little purple prose-y where Harris was concerned, but he thought it was warranted with a teacher who swooped around like a textbook villain archetype. Stiles let Harris examine his papers at his leisure, secure in the knowledge that his sneaky parchment was successfully sneaky. The man’s gaze skittered right over the not-essay, and he gave Stiles a very sour, thwarted look before swooping back to his desk.

Scott doodled a stick figure in a triumphant pose that made Stiles smile. The smile disappeared when beneath it Scott wrote:

 

_Derek was asking about you earlier you know_

 

That was mildly alarming for a number of reasons.

 

_what about me??_

 

_about your shifting and how it works and stuff_

 

Stiles manfully resisted the sudden urge to take Scott by the shoulders, shake him vehemently, and demand to know what state secrets Scott had divulged about him and his damnable emotion-broadcasting hair. Instead, he wrote:

 

_because my hair was making a damn fool out of me?_

 

Scott rolled his eyes again; he did that a lot around Stiles.

 

_more like because he’s interested in you, duh_

_and because he knows a little something about shifting involuntarily_

 

Now it was Stiles’ turn to roll his eyes. It wasn’t like Stiles didn’t know that; everybody did. Derek wasn’t exactly shy about his lycanthropy. He’d always been really open and unashamed about it, which Stiles had a lot of respect for considering the persistent stigma around the condition. But at least Derek’s shifting was _supposed_ to involuntary. Stiles should’ve been able to control every aspect of his metamorphing. He was just bad at it.

Derek wasn’t bad at anything. He was a gifted student with top marks in all his classes. He had been on the Hufflepuff quidditch team since second year as one of the best beaters the school had seen in decades. He was a respected prefect that all the teachers trusted and all the younger students looked up to. He had beautiful starburst eyes and big muscles and perfect hair that probably did what he told it to do without complaint.

Stiles was forcefully ejected from his fantasy of running his fingers through all that dark, soft-looking hair when Scott kicked him under the table. At Stiles’ dirty look, Scott raised an eyebrow and pointedly tapped his parchment. Stiles glanced up to make sure Harris was still grading essays and not paying them too much attention before checking his own.

 

_ok we’ve officially reached phase 2_

 

Stiles frowned at that statement for a minute. Then he made a confused face at Scott, who oh so helpfully pointed to his own head. When that still didn’t register, Scott huffed impatiently and scribbled down:

 

_you’re mirroring!!_

 

Scott underlined it three times and even that could not adequately convey the horror Stiles felt upon reading those words. He hurriedly grabbed at his own hair and pulled. Apparently, it was in a good mood because it obligingly grew a few inches so that he could tug it down in front of his eyes and see that, yes, Scott was right. His hair was now black, just like the hair he’d been thinking of petting.

 

_OH MY GOD_

_this is even worse than the rainbow hair!!!!!_

 

Scott grimaced sympathetically.

 

_it doesn’t look that bad! at least not as bad as with Lydia?_

 

As if anything could’ve been as bad as the three months in third year that Stiles had spent unconsciously mirroring Lydia because she was his standard of beauty at the time. No matter how good red curls had looked on Lydia, Stiles just could not pull them off the same way.

It had been less humiliating with Heather because blond was at least not as eye-grabbing, even if Stiles was definitely not the right complexion for it. With Danny, their hair wasn’t that different to start with and it had been Danny’s tan that Stiles had ended up mimicking, and the dimples, and the cut of his jaw which Scott had said looked really weird on him. But then the red curls and the blond had looked really weird on him too and that hadn’t stopped them from appearing on him.

Even when Stiles agreed that he looked stupid, it still always took Stiles getting over his crush to stop accidentally shifting to take on the features that made them the most attractive. It was pathetic, but he just couldn’t help it. And now here he was, unable to deny his crush any longer because his subconscious had evidently decided that Derek was the epitome of perfection and it wanted to be just like him, whether Stiles wanted that or not.

Stiles threw himself face down on the desk and wrote as best he could manage from that position:

 

_i hate everything and also i think i like Derek_

 

Scott’s laugh got them shushed by a very suspicious Harris. There was quiet for a few minutes while Stiles tried to suffocate himself in his own elbow. It didn’t work, so when Scott started nudging him repeatedly in the ribs, he figured he might as well face the fact of his continued existence and look up. Scott had written him a small paragraph in the meantime.

 

_this is not the end of the world_

_you should really just ask him, and hear me out with this_

_he was asking about you ok? that’s a good thing! he wants to know more about you and people don’t want to know more about people they’re not interested in_

_and he totally thought your pink hair was cute_

 

That last bit made Stiles’ stomach flip over, but he didn’t trust it. He wrote back:

 

_did he actually say that?_

 

Scott dithered for a minute before replying, writing fast, probably so that he could finish before Stiles had a chance to interrupt.

 

_not in so many words, but he didn’t have to say it_

_i know him ok? i could tell_

 

_just because he taught you how to hit balls with a bat and you scrimmage sometimes doesn’t mean you have super-magical Derek-interpreting skills_

 

_sure it does! i spend more time with him than you do, i know him better_

_so if i say that he likes you, then he likes you, and you can’t tell me i’m wrong_

 

Stiles wanted to say that he absolutely could tell him that and that he would be right in doing so, but Harris cleared his throat loudly and gave them a glare meant to menace them into stopping whatever they were doing wrong that he couldn’t see. By the time he looked back down, Scott had written:

 

_do you trust me?_

 

Stiles deflated; as if he could ever say no to that. Still, it took being poked three times to get Stiles to actually write down:

 

_yes you prick_

 

_then trust me on this_

_ask Derek out and see what happens_

_the worst he can do is say no_

 

That wasn’t the worst that could happen at all, but Stiles swallowed that down because maybe—just _maybe_ —Scott might have a point. The fact of it was that he did trust Scott, and he knew Scott would never knowingly set him up to fail or be humiliatingly rejected. Scott wouldn’t be pushing for this if he didn’t think Stiles had a real chance here.

Stiles chewed on his quill for a few minutes, staring at the words and thinking, thinking, thinking until it felt like smoke might be coming out of his ears like Pepper-Up Potion. Harris had done two whole laps of the room, looming included, by the time Stiles made up his mind. Just before the clock turned over and they were set free from their detention hell, he scribbled down:

 

_ok_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles was going to do it. He was going to take Scott’s word that maybe Derek wasn’t entirely disinterested and might perhaps be at least a little bit open to the possibility of doing something vaguely of a date-like manner with him and ask him out. That was what he was going to do today. He had spent half an hour in the bathroom mirror making absolutely sure that his appearance was as _him_ as he could make it and was now on his way to do just that.

It would go fine, he told himself firmly. He was going to be cool and suave and effortlessly flirtatious. Every part of him was going to remain one color scheme for the entire duration of the conversation. Derek would say yes and Stiles would sweep him off his feet and hurry him to Hogsmeade where epic romantic gestures would be made and Derek would undoubtedly swoon.

Stiles told himself this several times as he made his way through the castle, past the Great Hall, toward the huge front doors that led to the grounds. Around this time on Fridays, Derek was usually to be found doing homework outside in one of the courtyards, lounging in the sun and looking like he could _be_ one of the chiseled statues around him.

Stiles was going to find him there, outside alone in the beautiful weather. He was going to take several deep breaths to prepare himself, then approach him in a friendly manner and ask his question clearly and coherently.

He was going to do all of these things. He _would_ have done all of these things if he hadn’t run directly into Derek’s broad chest while turning the corner into the Entrance Hall. But that was what he did and it nearly knocked him right off his feet.

Derek’s hands were on his shoulders then, steadying him, and Derek was saying, “Stiles! Sorry, I didn’t see you. Are you okay?”

Stiles got his feet under him again, looked up, and found himself very close to a pair of abnormally colorful eyes. Merlin’s beard, those eyes were beautiful. This was the closest he’d ever been to them and from this distance he could make out the blues and greens that made up the outer half and the speckling of gold that crept out from the pupil like a fucking supernova. No one else had eyes like that, and no other eyes would ever measure up.

Derek was looking at him funny. Shit, Stiles had had a plan. He’d had a _plan_ and this was not how it was supposed to go. He hadn’t had time for his deep breathing, and he was close enough to touch and Derek was so fucking perfect and there was _no way in hell_ that Scott was right about this.

Stiles made a noise. It wasn’t words, but Stiles wasn’t sure what words he would’ve wanted it to be anyway so maybe that was for the best. What had he been planning to say again? Something about Hogsmeade?

He almost had a sentence strung together in his panicky brain, but before he could force his mouth to open and say it, Derek’s eyes flicked upward and his expression turned very concerned.

“Are you sure you’re okay? Your, um...” he said, letting go of Stiles’ shoulder—how long had he been touching Stiles?—to point at his head instead. “Your hair is sort of freaking out.”

_Abort mission, abort mission!_

Stiles had no idea what sort of a tantrum his hair was throwing, but he did know that Derek looked deeply disturbed by the display and that was his cue to put an end to this little disaster before it got any worse. Whatever sort of mild interest Derek had shown in his metamorphing the day before, whatever questions he had had, he’d gotten his answers now and he didn’t seem to like them.

Stiles might have mumbled some sort of vague excuse, or he might’ve just made another strangled-sounding noise, but it didn’t matter. He just wanted to make his escape, get back to his dormitory, and hole up in his bed with all the hangings closed until he could forget this ever happened. Maybe he could manage to shift into an entirely different person and flee the country. He was pretty sure that, technically speaking, he had that ability.

Derek might have called Stiles’ name as he rounded the corner back the way he’d come, but that didn’t matter either.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Stiles managed to go the whole weekend without ever leaving his dormitory. Isaac was a good dorm mate who longsufferingly brought Stiles snacks so he didn’t starve to death, and Stile was only too happy for once that Scott couldn’t get into the Slytherin common room to drag him out. It meant he was safe from Scott’s well-meaning questions and pep talks as long as he didn’t venture outside.

It also meant he was safe from running into Derek again and all the humiliation that would inevitably come with that. Stiles was seriously considering transfiguring himself into a bedside table so he could blend in with the rest of the furniture and never have to leave again. Bedside tables didn’t have to confront their romantic failures.

By Monday morning though, Stiles had decided against taking that route. He had instead faked being sick so that he could avoid potions class with the Hufflepuffs.

 

_i can’t believe Madam Pomfrey believed you_

 

_Fever Fudge, my friend_

_works wonders and is almost untraceable_

 

Stiles was sprawled on his stomach, bed hangings drawn shut and only lumos lighting the small space, with his sneaky parchment laid out in front of him because as high on his list of priorities as avoidance of awkward situations was, he didn’t actually want to fail any of his classes. NEWTs were coming up fast, and none of the teachers were going easy on them, so Scott had been passing on the salient points from each class whenever he had a break in his actual note-taking.

 

_you know you can’t keep this up forever right?_

 

Stiles did know that, but he didn’t particularly care for the reminder. He could probably get away with a week of sick leave if he really hammed it up. That would be long enough for Derek to forget he existed, right?

 

_Derek asked where you are_

 

Or maybe not. Stiles buried his face in his pillow and yelled, then wrote back:

 

_tell him i died_

 

_i told him you were sick dumbass but i don’t think he believed it_

_he’s not stupid, he knows you’re just avoiding him_

 

Yes, of course Stiles was avoiding him. That’s what most people did in these situations. He would’ve thought Derek would be relieved not to have to interact with him and his weird hair and his clumsiness and his unwelcome feelings all over the place.

 

_Stiles he didn’t even say no_

_you realize that right?_

_he couldn’t say no if you didn’t actually ask him anyth_

 

Scott’s handwriting cut off in the middle of a word. Beneath it, Lydia’s tight, neat script showed up sideways on the page, like she was leaning over from another table to write.

 

_As much as I appreciate you leaving me to brew my potions without your interference, I have to admit that Derek looking like a kicked puppy is putting a bit of a damper on the mood around here. And we’re already in a dungeon. It doesn’t get much damper than that._

_I blame you._

_Fix it._

 

Stiles made a noise of indignation high-pitched enough that he was glad no one was around to hear it. He also managed to kick his bedpost in his struggle to change positions without falling off the bed entirely. With a string of curses, he nearly poked his quill right through the parchment as he wrote:

 

_i can’t fix something that has nothing to do with me_

 

There was no way that Derek’s bad mood had anything to do with Stiles. No way was he upset or disappointed or whatever crazy notion Scott and Lydia had in their heads right now. It was just unthinkable!

Then Lydia wrote—

 

_He keeps looking over here and sighing into his cauldron._

_It absolutely has to do with you._

 

—and Scott wrote—

 

_dude he just looks really sad ok? i think he thinks you thought he insulted you_

 

—and Stiles had to stop and stare. And not just because that last bit was a little difficult to decipher.

Derek thought _Stiles_ was mad? He thought _he_ was the one who had done something wrong? Well, that was just silly! All he had done was get run into and then point out the obvious, which was that Stiles and his metamorphing were a mess. It wasn’t his fault that Stiles was apparently incapable of normal human interaction.

But, okay, he guessed it wasn’t entirely outside the realm of possibility that he might have interpreted Stiles running away like that as Stiles running away from _him_ rather than from his own humiliation. Maybe it did look, from the outside, like Derek’s question had made him mad or something.

And now Derek felt bad that he had supposedly made Stiles feel bad. That would make some sense, right? After all, Scott and Lydia couldn’t both be wrong. They were smart and observant people who knew Derek reasonably well. If they were both so convinced that Derek actually was disappointed that Stiles had bailed on him, then there was at least a possibility that that was the truth.

Stiles’ heart sank, and he let himself fall back onto his pillow with a whimper.

If that was the truth, then Stiles had made even _more_ of a goddamn fool of himself. That meant he’d had no reason to run at all and he’d left Derek there all confused and genuinely concerned like the nice guy he was, and then spent three days avoiding him like a total jackass and making him feel even worse.

Stiles found himself seriously reconsidering that spending-the-rest-of-his-life-as-a-table plan. It took him a few minutes to talk himself out of snatching up his wand right then and there, then he heaved the heaviest of all possible sighs and groped around for the parchment again.

Scott had written:

 

_look, it’s whatever man_

_but you really can’t hide in your dorm forever_

_you’re still coming to the memorial right?_

 

Oh god, the memorial. Stiles had been so caught up in his personal drama that he’d almost forgotten about it entirely and that familiar guilt—the tiny nugget of feeling in the back of his head that insisted he keep missing her just as much as always, that he had no right ever being anything but sad because she was gone and how dare he forget it—jumped up to nag at him.

He sat up and scrubbed his hands over his face, then up to run through his hair. It was longer than he usually had it, and still stubbornly black. He’d been avoiding mirrors ever since the incident so as not to be reminded of it, but he hadn’t needed any reminder. He’d hardly been able to think of anything else. Apparently even his dead mother and the memorial celebration for all the others the last Wizarding War had taken.

 

_i don’t know if i’m up for it this year Scott_

 

Not just because Derek would be there, in the front row like he always was. Stiles wouldn’t be petty enough to let that stop him from honoring his mother. But it was his final year at Hogwarts, just a few months until he really started his life, and it was just starting to hit him that she wouldn’t be there to see it. Put this drama on top of that sobering realization and shove him into a crowd of hundreds of students and Stiles was pretty sure his frayed nerves wouldn’t take it very well.

Scott didn’t respond, and neither did Lydia. Class had probably ended and they were on their way to the Great Hall for dinner. Stiles didn’t move to join them. He just extinguished his lumos and lay back in the dark.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The library was empty. Even Madam Pince was gone, already outside with the rest of the school’s population waiting for the memorial to begin. She had only allowed Stiles to remain in the library unattended because Stiles had made very sure to ingratiate himself with her years ago. There may have been some minor bribery involved, and by bribery, he had meant an offer to watch her desk so that she could reshelve her precious books herself.

It was paying off now that he needed something to distract himself. He could’ve stayed in the common room, but the sofas were too comfortable to allow for studying, and he needed the studying to keep himself from dwelling on things that ought not to be dwelled on. Besides, he’d definitely needed a few of these reference books.

That the essay wasn’t even due for another week and a half was beside the point. He was being proactive, okay? That was a good thing! Besides, the memorial wasn’t a mandatory thing, and no one could judge him for choosing not to go. Especially when he had a perfectly legitimate alternative, like studying.

He kept his various textbooks and rolls of parchment laid out around him, interspersed with scraps of doodling and reference books from the shelves. As was habit, his sneaky parchment was tucked just under his slowly growing essay. That was the only reason he even saw Scott’s message when it popped up.

 

_since you’re not here i’m assuming you’re not coming_

 

Stiles’ guilt twinged again, but he shook his head to dislodge it and wrote back:

 

_the library’s been calling my name_

_sorry pal_

 

He hesitated for a second, bottom lip between his teeth, before adding:

 

_send up a light for me_

 

Then he shoved the parchment under the nearest book so he wouldn’t have to see if Scott responded. He tried to focus on his writing, though that did translate to spending several minutes on a moving stick figure comic instead. By the time that was finished, he had his next paragraph formulated in his head and could get to writing in earnest.

He was halfway through it when the library door swung open and Lydia came storming in with a swirl of her cloak.

“Stiles!” She came to a stop before his table and looked down at him imperiously. “Just who I was looking for.”

Stiles frowned up at her. “How did you know I was in here?”

“Scott told me,” she said briskly. “Look, I need a favor. I’m supposed to be at the memorial helping to set up the enchantments, but I ran late brewing a very important potion.”

Before Stiles could point out that Scott was at the memorial already and how could he have told Lydia where Stiles was if he and Lydia weren’t in the same place, she was pulling a vial from an inside pocket of her cloak and handing it over. It was purple and a little shimmery. Stiles squinted at it for a moment.

“Is this wolfsbane?” he demanded. “Why are you making wolfsbane?”

Lydia rolled her eyes, foot tapping impatiently. “I always make wolfsbane potion on full moons, Stiles, you know this. I took over doing it for Harris when I got better at it than him in fourth year.”

Full moon? That was tonight? Wow, Stiles really _had_ been distracted lately. Normally he was pretty good at keeping track of the full moons by noticing when Derek was out of class, or when he was especially scowly in the days leading up to it. But Stiles hadn’t gone to class the last two days so he’d missed his usual signposts.

“Wait, does that mean this is for...?”

“Yes, it’s for Derek,” Lydia cut in. “He needs it before moonrise, and I don’t have time to take it to him.”

A thrill of worry ran through Stiles—full moons without wolfsbane potion were _hell_ for werewolves, especially ones that were used to having it—and then it dawned on him exactly what favor Lydia was about to ask of him. His stomach dropped and he had a distinct suspicion that his hair was turning the puky green color that usually came with anxiety. Sadly, that wasn’t enough to prevent Lydia from going on.

“I’m needed on the grounds, Stiles,” she said. “And Derek really needs his potion. I would owe you one big time if you would take it out to him for me.”

Stiles groaned, only resisting the urge to fling his hands up because he was still holding the potion. “Merlin’s beard, Lydia! Is there no one else you could get to—”

“Everyone is busy with the memorial,” she said. “And any others who aren’t don’t know the shortcuts you do.”

Stiles did not appreciate that his nosiness and knowledge of illicit tunnels was being used against him, but he had to admit that she had a point. If there was anyone who could get to the Shrieking Shack in record time, it would be him. Or Scott, but Scott was busy.

Stiles almost insisted that he was busy too. His essay was right there, after all, begging him to write it. But the potion was cool in his hand and glittered innocently in the slight flickering of the nearest candle, and there was no way that Stiles would risk condemning Derek to the kind of agony their Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook had described, no matter how much he wanted to avoid the guy. The illustrations alone had been emotionally scarring for Stiles, and _he_ wasn’t even the one living them.

Lydia’s smug face meant that she already knew she’d won. She didn’t even have to say anything else. She just turned on her heel, cloak whipping behind her, and left a very frustrated Stiles in her wake, hating his life.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The passage into Honeydukes’ basement was as empty and creepy as it always was, but Stiles had never minded that. He sort of enjoyed the ambiance, to be honest. Sometimes he snuck out to Hogsmeade this way just for fun, even though he was perfectly allowed to walk through the front gates with the rest of the student body. It was much more exciting to prowl the abandoned tunnels and dodge the store’s clerks like a bandit or something.

Tonight didn’t feel like that, though. Tonight Stiles had a vial clutched tightly in his hand and a very uncomfortable encounter waiting for him on the other end of the journey.

It wasn’t dark yet by the time Stiles emerged, glad that Hogsmeade was a town with such a low crime rate that Honeydukes didn’t bother to secure its premises with more than a standard locking charm. The sun was just touching the horizon, peeking over the mountains in the distance to paint the rooftops orange and red. Silhouetted against it, the Shrieking Shack looked small and broken down, hardly sturdy enough to contain rampaging beasts.

Well, hopefully no beasts would be rampaging tonight. At least, not unless Derek decided to tear Stiles a new one for being both an idiot and a jerk, which might be warranted.

Stiles hesitated just outside the Shack’s perimeter. The wards wouldn’t stop him from entering, but his nerves might. This was _so_ not fair. Why did it have to be him? He was probably the very last person that Derek wanted to see.

He would just pop in, hand over the potion, and escape before things could get too bad. Maybe his metamorphing would even help him out for once and shift him into a totally unrecognizable person! He didn’t hold out much hope for that, but the brief fantasy was nice. The sun was starting to set in earnest though so he didn’t have time to indulge in it for long.

A few more deep breaths and he forced his reluctant feet to take him past the broken down fence, up the overgrown path, and through the busted door.

He had only been inside the Shrieking Shack a handful of times in his younger years when he and Scott had been determined to thoroughly explore every nook and cranny they weren’t technically allowed into. For some reason, it wasn’t as intimidating now as it had seemed at thirteen, even though this time he knew for sure that there was an actual werewolf waiting for him.

The interior was dim and dusty, floors scuffed and walls littered with scratch marks and questionable stains. Contrary to its sensational name, it was quiet.

Stiles tiptoed his way further inside, peeking through doorways until he came upon what looked like it might’ve been a grand bedroom once upon a time. There were the remains of a four-poster bed in one corner, bereft of hangings but still with musty sheets and pillows. A smashed bureau and writing desk were on the near wall. All of that was unremarkable. It was the far wall that really caught Stiles’ eye.

It looked like it used to be a bay window with a seat but something—either a werewolf from years past or some kind of bad weather maybe—had broken the panes and torn out half the wall along with it. A ragged space was left behind, perfectly situated to give a view of Hogwarts up on the hill. Most of the bench was still intact and on it was Derek, staring out over the rooftops of Hogsmeade toward the sunset-backed outline of the castle on the horizon.

Stiles stopped in the doorway, lungs freezing up at the sight. He had half a mind to just turn and run, but he knew he couldn’t do that. Not with the potion still undelivered and definitely not when Derek’s shoulders were hunched like that, like there was a weight pressing down on him, his blank stare focused on nothing apparent.

A slight, accidental shift of weight was more than enough to make the old floorboards creak. The sound was painfully loud and left Stiles cringing. Of course, Derek whipped around to face him, but his alarm didn’t last long; confusion replaced it, and then something that looked like resignation. The tension leached out of him, and he turned back around.

“What are you doing here?” he asked without looking at Stiles.

Stiles cleared his throat, brandishing the vial even though he knew Derek couldn’t see the motion. “Lydia sent me. She was running late for the—”

Oh. _That_ was probably why Derek was looking like that. Stiles wasn’t the only one missing out on the memorial this year. He couldn’t recall a year when Derek hadn’t been right there in the front row, remembering and honoring the family he had lost to the war.

Now he was all the way out here, alone with his remembrance.

Stiles let out a heavy breath and left the doorway. Derek glanced at him when he dropped down on the free end of the bench, but he didn’t say anything right away. For a moment there was silence between them as the sun crept downward, casting a red-orange halo around the towers that made up the skyline.

The first light flared in the distance, a tiny bright spot on the dark green expanse of the grounds. Another followed soon after, and another, all blossoming across the horizon, a slowly growing trail of pinpricks that would soon meld into one giant swath of brilliance. Stiles recalled the feeling of sitting in the middle of that, shoulder to shoulder with a hundred other people with their wands in the air as the light flared on all sides. The sensation of being subsumed by it, carried along on the tide of shared grief, so thick and palpable it was like the ghosts were all there with them.

It was no less tangible here, even with just the two of them. Neither of them had their wands raised, but the light from the distant memorial reached even here, shining pale yellow on Derek’s face, reflecting in his eyes. It was almost more beautiful when witnessed from afar, but Derek didn’t seem like he was seeing it at all.

“Do you miss her?”

Stiles was so caught up in his staring that he nearly missed Derek’s question. Derek caught his hesitation.

“It was your mom,” he said. “Wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Stiles managed. “And you, um…”

Derek nodded. Neither of them wanted to say out loud that he had lost everyone. Both parents, his last grandparent, two uncles, an aunt, four cousins, an older brother. All of his family except for his older sister. Eleven of those pinprick lights were for his benefit, more than anyone else in the school. The knowledge hung heavy in the quiet between them and Stiles leaned in just enough to press their shoulders together.

Derek didn’t move away, but he did ask, “Why are you here, Stiles?”

Stiles fumbled for the vial still clamped in his sweaty hand and thrust it hurriedly under Derek’s nose. Startled, Derek took it. Then he huffed a laugh.

“I meant why are you _still_ here?” He gave the vial a little shake, purple liquid shimmering. “Potion delivered. You should be back at the school. You’re missing the memorial.”

“So are you. Doesn’t seem fair.” Stiles shrugged, fiddling with the seam on his sleeve. “Besides, I don’t mind being here. With you.”

Derek gave another weak chuckle. “Really? Because I was sort of under the impression that you wanted nothing to do with me. I’m a little surprised Lydia even managed to get you out here for this.”

As if Stiles could ever say no to Lydia. In fact, he was starting to think that Lydia had deliberately used that to her advantage here, probably in collusion with Scott. He made an unhappy noise.

“No, I just— I mean, yes, okay, I was maybe avoiding you a little bit, but that was just because I— Not because you—”

Stiles forced the disjointed words to stop coming and his mouth to close. He substituted a grunt of frustration instead, scrubbing at his face with his hands like that would help him get his thoughts in order. It didn’t, but he surfaced to find Derek looking at him with a raised eyebrow and a tentative half-smile, so maybe something in his babble had translated.

Derek’s eyes flicked upwards and his smile grew a bit. “Is there a reason your hair is black?”

Goddamn it, Stiles had been hoping the growing dimness would hide that, or at least that Derek would just write it off as a quirk of his metamorphing and ignore it.

“I like black hair,” he mumbled.

“You’ve never had it black before.”

 _I wasn’t madly in love with you before,_ Stiles definitely did not say out loud. He just kept his eyes on the still swelling lights in the distance. “It’s just nice.”

“You should change it back,” Derek said. “Your normal hair is nicer.”

Stiles glanced at him, but Derek wasn’t watching him anymore. His eyes were downcast, dark eyelashes fanned out across his cheekbones. The cut of his jaw sharp and perfectly stubbled, the smooth paleness of his skin practically glowing in the sunset. He looked unfairly beautiful.

“ _You_ should take your potion,” Stiles said hoarsely. “You have to take it before moonrise, right? It’s getting dark fast.”

Derek obediently popped the cork out of the vial and upended it. There were only a few mouthfuls in it. His neck was long and graceful and elegant and the way his throat worked made Stiles’ mouth go dry. He turned away before Derek could catch him staring and cast around for something else to say.

“Your shift,” he came up with. “Does it hurt?”

“Does yours?”

Stiles shook his head. For a second Derek’s jaw clenched and he looked almost jealous. It passed in a second though as he turned the empty vial over and over in his hand.

“Yes,” he said, a belated answer to Stiles’ question. “It hurts a lot. More without this, though. So thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

There was a long pause. And then:

“It really doesn’t hurt at all?” Derek asked, somewhere between skeptical and annoyed, and Stiles snorted.

“Nope. I barely even feel it, honestly. Half the time I don’t even notice it’s happening.”

“Have you noticed that your moles are gone?”

Stiles looked up sharply, one hand flying to his face automatically. He ran it over his cheek, searching for the raised spots that were usually there in his default state, but Derek was right. His skin was smooth and even. It wasn’t the _first_ time he had shifted his moles away—he had spent four whole months hiding them once after Jackson had compared them to mud splatters—but he didn’t usually. Only when he was feeling particularly self-conscious.

Stiles did not want to examine what that said about him in this moment.

“Didn’t mean to,” he said instead. “Didn’t think anyone would notice anyway. Who remembers that kind of thing?”

But Derek said, “I do,” with an awkward little half-shrug motion and Stiles was left with nothing to do but stare at him. Derek shifted in his seat, head ducking down for a moment before he turned to face Stiles more fully. Slowly, he reached up a hand.

“I remember one here.” One finger touched down just to the left of Stiles’ mouth. It was warm, even against the sudden flush in Stiles’ cheek, and it traced outward. “And here.” Further, skating along the edge of his jaw to stop in the soft spot under his ear. “Two more here.”

“ _Derek._ ” The name came out breathless, almost pleading. Stiles wasn’t sure what he wanted, but he knew that what he was getting was making him dangerously lightheaded.

Derek didn’t take his hand away. “Why did you run?”

It was difficult to form words—or semi-coherent thoughts, for that matter—when Derek was this close, looking at him like that. Stiles had never imagined that anyone could look at him like that, much less someone like Derek, but here they were, and he was too far off script to know what to say.

“I thought you…” But it didn’t matter what he had thought because he’d been wrong. He had been _so wrong._ “I just didn’t want you to...to see all the crazy shifting and…”

Derek’s thumb swept over his cheek, feather-light. Stiles closed his eyes, but he couldn’t help leaning into the touch.

“I didn’t want you to think I was weird,” he said in a rush. “Or gross, or ugly.”

His heartbeat was loud in his ears, a heavy rushing of his pulse that drowned out the hitch of his breath as he waited for Derek to agree with him, to push him away, to admit this was all just one big joke at his expense.

“Is that why you’re shifting to look more like me?”

Stiles swallowed hard. “I just like black hair, remember?” It was a weak attempt at a denial, and Derek answered it with another of those half-smiles.

“You have my eyes right now,” he said. “I’d recognize them anywhere.”

 _Shit,_ when had that happened? How long had they been like that? If Stiles hadn’t spent the last five days avoiding mirrors, he might’ve known. He never would’ve come out here if he had. But he hadn’t and now he was sitting here looking like a pathetic idiot.

He tried to pull back, but Derek’s hand moved to curl around the back of his neck, holding him place.

“Why would you do that?” he asked. “Change yourself to look like me. Because you think you’re ugly and I’m not?”

The words hit Stiles right in the gut, in that vulnerable place down deep where he didn’t like to look if he didn’t have to. Not that he hadn’t thought the same thing a million times. But he’d worked really hard not to put that fine a point on it. Hearing it laid out so plainly tore at some thin veil of denial in him, and his face burned with shame.

Still Derek didn’t let him pull away. He didn’t stop _looking_ at him with those beautiful supernova eyes of his, the ones that Stiles had apparently stolen. He didn’t look angry about the appropriation though, and his touch, while firm, stayed gentle. When a tear found its way down Stiles’ face, he brought his other hand up to wipe it away. It was such a tender gesture. Stiles felt like he was cracking open.

“Stiles,” Derek said, shaking his head helplessly. “You don’t need to hide behind this.”

“I’m not _hiding,_ I can’t even—”

“You are and you can. You just have to want it.”

“And what if I don’t?” Stiles snapped, shoving Derek’s gentle hands away.

For a long minute, they just stared at each other. In the strained silence, a distant swell of music sounded, carried to them on the breeze. Hundreds of voices raised together in song. A tribute to the fallen. The light still shone, brighter than ever, casting half of Derek’s face in shadow and highlighting the other in gold.

Derek still had one hand in the air between them, hovering. He let it fall, and Stiles’ heart clenched; this was the end of it, Derek was done. He had tried and Stiles had fucked it up again. Now was the time to run before it could get any worse, before—

“Shift back.”

Stiles blinked at him, uncomprehending. “What?”

“All of this.” Derek pointed at him. “The hair, the eyes, the moles. Shift back.”

Teeth grinding against the helpless frustration of it, Stiles gritted out, “I told you, I can’t.”

“ _Shift back._ ”

Stiles threw his hands in the air. “Why?” he demanded. “Why, Derek?”

“Because I want you to look like _you_ when I kiss you!”

“You can’t ju—” Stiles’ reflexive argument stalled out as Derek’s words sunk in. “Wait, you...what?”

Derek rolled his eyes expansively. “I want to kiss you, Stiles,” he repeated, very clearly. “The real you. Not some made up variation of you, and definitely not my own doppelganger. _You._ With your brown hair and your brown eyes and your moles. That’s the person I want.”

Through the clenching of his heart and the tightness of his throat, Stiles choked out, “How do you know that’s even the real me, huh?”

Derek wasn’t thrown. “Because that’s the one you’re so damn scared of letting me see.”

Scared didn’t begin to cover it. It wasn’t even a rational fear, Stiles could admit that much. It wasn’t like Derek had never seen his real eyes before, or his moles, or any of the other puzzle pieces that made him up, over the seven years that they’d shared classes. But none of that was this moment. It wasn’t the two of them sitting close in the dark, sharing secrets. It wasn’t _intimate_ like this, and the thought of stripping away the layers now was scarier than it had any right to be.

But Derek was here. Even after all the bullshit, he was still here, asking for one thing and one thing only. He was watching Stiles so closely, so intensely. There was a challenge on his face, a dare for Stiles to let him in. And Stiles had never been one to back down from a dare, no matter how scary.

Stiles barely felt the shift. It just was a subtle thing, like feeling a pond ripple from under the surface. He saw Derek see it though. He saw the way Derek’s eyes widened, the way the corner of his mouth tugged up into a smile. He felt the warmth on his cheek as Derek reached up to touch the newly reappeared mole there.

“There you are.”

“Here I am,” Stiles said weakly. “Hi.”

Derek’s laugh gusted across Stiles’ lips as he leaned in to take them in a kiss that would’ve made his knees weak if they’d been standing up. As it was, Stiles could only get a tight grip on Derek’s shoulder to keep himself upright and let himself get swept away by it.

“I’m sorry I’ve been such an idiot lately,” he said between kisses, when he had the breath to manage words.

“You’re always an idiot,” Derek murmured back. “A pretty brilliant one, though.”

Stiles might have taken offense to that comment if Derek hadn’t gone tense all over, every muscle locking up. Stiles pulled back in alarm. Derek’s face was suddenly twisted up in pain, eyes screwed shut.

“Derek? Derek, what—”

“You should go.”

A beam of pale silver light crept through the window, fighting with the golden glow from the ongoing memorial. The full moon was rising.

Derek pulled out of Stiles’ hold, tumbling himself off the end of the bench to land on his hands and knees. “Go, Stiles!” he said.

Stiles was shaking his head before he’d even gotten the words out, already following him down onto the floor. “No way, pal. I’m not going anywhere.”

“It’s too dangerous for you to be here,” Derek bit out.

“Did you take your potion?” Stiles asked.

“You know I did.”

“Have Lydia’s potions ever failed you before?”

Derek answered him with a growl of aggravation. His fingernails dug into the splintered wood of the floor, the muscles in his forearms straining. It looked like even raising his head to look at Stiles was a struggle. He couldn’t say no to Stiles’ question though and they both knew it; Lydia’s potions were consistently flawless.

“You’re not going to hurt me, Derek. And even if you tried, I have my wand and also there’s a handy window right there for me to jump out of. The wards wouldn’t let you follow me.”

Still, Derek shook his head, breath coming hard and fast as the moonlight inched across the floor toward him. He opened his mouth to order Stiles away again.

“It’s not about the danger, is it?” Stiles cut in. Derek tensed even further and Stiles knew he was right. “You just don’t want me to see you like this. I get it. But, Derek, I let you see me, didn’t I?”

Derek convulsed, spasming muscles making him curl in on himself, and a whine forced its way from his throat. “Not the same,” he tried to argue.

“Isn’t it?”

Derek looked up at him. In all the years they had known each other, Stiles had never seen Derek anything less than cool and composed, especially where his lycanthropy was concerned. He had weathered every invasive question and derogatory comment with stoic dignity, but that was nowhere to be seen now. Stiles couldn’t help but remember all those gruesome textbook illustrations and think that Derek, at least, had every right to be scared.

As he watched, Derek’s eyes shifted from their usual mishmash of colors to a bright, slitted green. Neither of them looked away.

“I’m not going to run this time, Derek,” Stiles said into the moon-heavy moment. “I’m not leaving you alone, not tonight.”

Derek gave him the barest of nods, and then the moonbeams were on him. It was like he was struck by lightning.

Stiles scrambled out of the way of his seizing limbs, landing on his ass with his back against the bench. There was nothing he could do but stare as Derek writhed and clawed at himself with fingers that were actually growing claws. Derek’s shirt ended up shredded and thrown away, and normally Stiles would’ve been all over that glorious expanse of rippling muscle, but there was nothing sexual about the way Derek was arching now or the bitten off screams coming out of his mouth.

There was a horrifying moment where Derek’s skin _moved,_ like the bones underneath were trying to rearrange themselves, and Stiles held his breath, waiting for the screaming to start in earnest. But it didn’t.

Derek sucked in his next breath and, instead of another sound of pain, there came a tendril of gold. It emerged on a sigh and traced its way around Derek’s neck, over his shoulder, across his heaving chest. It snaked around his stomach and lower, around and around until it had dusted every part of him in its light.

Derek wasn’t panting anymore. The agony had left his face, slack relief in its place, even as the shifting under his skin continued. The golden binding began to glow brighter, brighter, _brighter_ until Derek’s whole form was engulfed in it.

Stiles had to look away, blinking furiously to clear the glare from his retinas. By the time he looked back, Derek was gone. Or, more accurately, Derek had shifted. The form in front of him now was all dark fur. It wasn’t quite humanoid, but it wasn’t a full wolf either, limbs too long and slender for the proportions to add up. The muzzle was shorter than a real canine as well, though the teeth looked just as sharp.

It—no, he—no, _Derek_ —lifted himself up on paws that were just barely too animalistic to be called hands, the thick muscle of his haunches rolling under his sleek fur. He shook his head, whuffing out an almost bark-like noise. When he looked up, his eyes were still that slitted green.

“Oh wow,” Stiles breathed out.

He didn’t know what sort of expression he had on his face, but Derek immediately hunkered down, belly to the ground, and began to retreat. Stiles scrambled up and held a hand out.

“No, no, no,” he said. “It’s okay! Hey, Derek, you’re okay. I’m not afraid of you.”

The noise Derek made somehow managed to sound skeptical. Stiles found himself smiling. Slowly, he inched forward until he could lay his hand on Derek’s side. Derek flinched but didn’t move away. He held very still and let Stiles pet him, watching warily like he was waiting for Stiles to change his mind and flee in terror.

Stiles just said, “Softer than I would’ve expected. Might even be cuddly.”

Derek made an even more skeptical noise, and Stiles laughed. He moved the petting up to Derek’s ears, large and thin and strangely batlike for a werewolf. Derek reacted just like a dog would though, eyelids drooping as he leaned helplessly into the scratch.

“There we go,” Stiles said smugly. “You like that, don’t you? You’re just a big puppy. Nothing to be scared of here.”

Those big green eyes blinked up at him for a second, and then Derek was leaning forward to drag a huge, rough tongue over the side of Stiles’ face. Stiles fell back on his ass with a groan. Wiping away the dog spit with his sleeve, he couldn’t help but notice that the lick had gone right over the line of moles that Derek had made such a fuss over earlier, and he ducked his head to hide a blush.

When he looked up, Derek was hunched over like he thought maybe he’d done something wrong again. Stiles shook his head and pushed himself to his feet. He glanced at the window, then over to the bed, then back to the window.

“Think we could still see the light show from over there?”

Derek whined questioningly.

“Well, we don’t want to miss any more of the memorial than we already have.” Stiles slipped his hands into his pockets, shrugging with as much nonchalance as he could manage. “Besides, we were having a pretty important conversation earlier. I was sort of hoping to continue that and, seeing as you’re not going to have human lips again until morning, we might as well sleep in the meantime. That bed doesn’t look _too_ unsanitary.”

Stiles waited with his heart in his throat to see what Derek would do. He was pretty sure, rationally, but there was that mean little voice in the back of his head that was insisting Derek would snarl at him and chase him off for daring to assume there would be more kissing in the future or that Derek even wanted him there at all. This whole night had been a little surreal, after all.

After just a moment of hesitation, Derek crawled up onto the bed. He turned around twice—very doglike, Stiles was amused to note—and laid himself down with his nose tucked under his tail. He sneezed.

Stiles hid his smile (and his relief) by leaning down to kick off his shoes. Then he followed Derek up and settled himself alongside his furry warmth. The bed really wasn’t all that bad, considering how long it had been abandoned in this place, and they had a decent view of the pretty lights up at that castle.

A moment later, Derek wriggled around until he could lay his head on Stiles’ chest. He eyed Stiles carefully until Stiles reached up to scratch behind his ear again, then his eyes slid closed, the last of his tension slipping away.

Stiles smiled to himself. He had never in his life thought he would pet a werewolf on a full moon, but here he was. Actually, with the light shining on him like this, Derek’s shifted form was sort of beautiful, in its own strange way. Stiles would have to make sure to tell him that in the morning.

Just as Stiles was starting to feel the pull of sleep, he remembered that he should probably tell someone he wasn’t coming back to the castle tonight. Isaac wasn’t exactly the type to worry, but Scott might if he didn’t hear from him at all. It took a little doing to get the folded up parchment out of his pocket without jostling the half-asleep werewolf using him as a pillow, but he managed it. He unfolded it to find:

 

_you’re not back yet so i assume you’re still with Derek_

_you can thank me tomorrow_

 

Stiles rolled his eyes with a snort. The motion made Derek snuffle, nuzzling that much closer. It was way too adorable for a creature of nightmare. As ludicrous as it was, Stiles found himself smiling until his cheeks hurt and there was a very good chance that his hair was turning pink again.

He decided that, for once, he didn’t mind.

**Author's Note:**

> [rebloggable on tumblr here!](http://clotpolesonly.tumblr.com/post/175714819106/pink-is-for-pining-you-you-nothing-but-you)


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